by Anna Elliott
Jones made a motion as though to try to rub his swollen and doubtless painful nose, then abandoned it as he realised that his hands were bound.
“Well, you see it was this way. Ronny Stiles is a mate of mine.” He tried to raise his hands again. “Here—any chance you could untie these?”
“No. Go on.”
Mr. Jones sighed. “All right. But this is all just a misunderstanding, see?”
“Indeed.” Holmes brows lifted again. “I look forward to your enlightening us as to the nature of that misunderstanding.”
“Well.” Jones licked chapped lips. “Ronny Stiles is a mate of mine, just like I said. Only I hadn’t heard from him in a while, and I got to worrying about him, like. I thought as how maybe something had happened to him—or he might have taken ill.”
“I see. Truly, such concern for your friend does you credit,” Holmes said.
A more perceptive man would have been put off by the dryness of his tone. Mr. Jones gave him a slightly doubtful glance, but then went on.
“Well, I got to old Ronny’s place—and I saw the … ah, the young lady there.” He nodded towards Lucy. “Well, how was I to know what business she had being in Ronny’s rooms? I thought as how maybe she was a burglar as had broken in to rob poor old Ronny of his valuables. I was just trying to scare her off, see?”
“As any good friend would.” The irony in Holmes tone was now strong enough to penetrate even Mr. Jones’ awareness.
He swallowed nervously, but didn’t answer.
Holmes eyed him a long moment, during which Jones attempted to squirm but was restrained by his bonds.
“Mr. Jones,” he said at last. “It is fortunate for you that you are an abysmal liar.”
The man shifted uncomfortably again. “What d’you mean?”
“I mean that if I thought there was any truth in your absurd story, I would simply hand you over to the police, who would arrest you and charge you with assault.”
Mr. Jones’ face blanched as he looked at Lucy, who as yet hadn’t spoken. The strip of white bandage on her arm, however, was a graphic reminder that Mr. Jones would have difficulty in persuading any policeman that he had intended no harm.
“However,” Holmes went on, then stopped. “Ah.” He tilted his head, listening. “That, if I am not much mistaken, is Ronald Stiles’ sister, Mrs. Spenlow, arriving downstairs.”
“Sister?” Mr. Jones startled.
“Yes. You have met her, perhaps? As a friend of Mr. Stiles?”
“I … no, never heard of her,” Jones growled.
Holmes’s gaze lingered another moment on Mr. Jones’ face, then he went on, “I telephoned to her at her hotel shortly after your arrival, asking her to join us. Lucy, would you be so good as to go and let her in? Explain the situation here, and ask her whether she would be willing to sit in on the remainder of our conversation with Mr. Jones?”
CHAPTER 12: LUCY
Mrs. Spenlow looked nothing at all like the woman I had expected.
Ever since coming face to face with Mr. Jones in Ronald Stiles’ room, I had been attempting to dispel the feeling that had so far pursued me through this case: of having entered a play halfway through the second act, or having opened a book in the middle of the story.
As yet, Holmes hadn’t even had the time to fill me in on the full background of Ronald Stiles. I knew nothing beyond the bare fact that his estranged sister wished to find him.
And, of course, that Flynn had must have encountered trouble finding Stiles, since he was now missing.
Mrs. Spenlow listened in silence to my account of what had so far happened in our search for her brother.
After introducing myself, I had brought her into the parlour of 221A, the flat below 221B up above, so that we could speak in private, and her eyes grew progressively wider as I talked.
“That poor boy!” She put a hand to her throat when I had finished. “Missing, you say? That is truly terrible! Do you believe it may be the … this person upstairs who has … has harmed him in some way?”
Ordinarily, I despised euphemisms that sought to cover up an ugly truth. But in this case, I couldn’t entirely blame her for flinching away from the fact that Flynn might have been hurt—or worse, killed.
I had been ruthlessly shoving the thought to the back of my own mind. But it would explain why Becky and I had found no trace of him, and why we had heard nothing from him since the note that had brought us to Cable Street.
“And now Mr. Holmes wishes me to see the man whom you captured in Ronald’s room?” Mrs. Spenlow went on without waiting for me to answer. “Of course, I am willing, if he believes that it will help. But I cannot see what assistance I may give. I haven’t seen my brother in over twenty years, and so naturally any of his acquaintances would be complete strangers to me.”
“I’m not sure what Holmes has in mind,” I told her.
That was the unadorned truth. I had no idea of Holmes’s plan—beyond the certainty that he had one. Holmes never did anything without calculation.
“It may be that he’s hoping your presence will have some effect on Mr. Jones in inducing him to tell us what he knows,” I said.
Although my experience with Holmes’s plans suggested that his current one was unlikely to be as simple as that.
Mrs. Spenlow bit her lip, her brows furrowed and her expression anxious. “I suppose he is a very … rough individual?”
“Very.”
I watched her as I said it. I hadn’t quite taken Athena Spenlow’s measure yet. I had unconsciously expected that the sister of a merchant sailor would be middle-aged, motherly, and plain, instead of the vibrant, mature beauty who faced me now. She seemed at least at first glance the type of woman who might very well wish to avoid a confrontation with a known violent offender.
Not that I could blame her for it if that were the case. Most sane women would wish to avoid meeting a man of Mr. Jones’s disposition.
The cut on my arm wasn’t overly painful—I’d had worse—but it was certainly a strong argument against underestimating the man now tied up in Holmes’s sitting room.
I had apparently misjudged Mrs. Spenlow, though, because she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.
“Then of course I will come,” she said. “Anything I can do to help; you and Mr. Holmes have only to ask.”
***
The interlude did not appear to have improved Mr. Jones’ temper. He was sitting with his head sunk on his chest and his still blood-smeared face set in a sullen glower, lips tight within the frame of his beard and brows drawn.
He didn’t look up as we entered the room. Mrs. Spenlow trailed along behind me, her hands twisting nervously.
I had thought perhaps Holmes wanted to watch Jones’ face when he was confronted with Ronald Stiles’ sister. But instead he rose to greet us, taking Mrs. Spenlow by the hand.
“Ah, thank you for coming. I promise you that had I not thought it necessary, I would not have subjected you to this unpleasantness.”
“You need not thank me, Mr. Holmes. It was I asked that you find my brother—I who bear the responsibility for what has since occurred. But I don’t understand.” Mrs. Spenlow’s voice wavered slightly as she looked past Holmes to Mr. Jones’ hunched and scowling figure. “Do you believe that Ronald has gone missing because he was involved in something—something of questionable legal standing?”
“Do you think that likely?” Holmes asked.
Mrs. Spenlow twisted a ring around one finger of her hand. “Twenty years ago, I would have said no. Ronald was high-spirited—impulsive. But not vicious or dishonest. Now, though …” she raised one hand and let it fall. “How can I say? I do not know what sort of trials he has endured over the years, or how they may have embittered him. I only know that whatever he has done, he is still my brother, and I still wish to find him. If he is in trouble—danger of some kind—perhaps I may be able to help.” She drew a breath, seeming to brace herself, then took a step forward, towards Mr. Jones. “I implor
e you, sir, if you know anything at all about my brother’s whereabouts, please tell it now.”
I should have thought Mr. Jones was somewhat less likely to be moved by an appeal to emotion than he was to put on a green beard and start singing vaudeville show tunes.
But he gave Holmes a quick glance and muttered, “I don’t want to go to prison.”
“That, Mr. Jones, is what one might term stating the obvious,” Holmes said. “However, if you prove yourself able to tell us something useful, I might be persuaded to forgo any police involvement in this matter and simply forget that this afternoon’s unpleasantness ever occurred.”
“Well—all right.” Mr. Jones licked his lips, then said, “Stiles owed me money, see? But now he’s done a bunk so’s not to have to pay me back. That’s why I went to his place this afternoon—hoping to find someone as could tell me where Ronny’d hidden himself. Or else find something of his that I could take in payment of the debt, like.”
“So you have no idea where Ronald Stiles is now?” Holmes asked.
Mr. Jones’ lips pulled in a scowl. “If I had, I’d have found him, wouldn’t I, and made him pay back the money wot he owes me—not gone messing about with you lot!”
Holmes regarded him for a moment from under half-lowered lids. Then, at last, he gave a short nod.
“Very well. Watson, take Mr. Jones downstairs and hand him over to the police constables who are waiting in the street outside. I telephoned to summon them at the same time that I invited Mrs. Spenlow to join us here. They will be expecting you.”
“What?” Mr. Jones’ twin blackened eyes opened so wide that they looked almost ready to start out of his head. “You’re handing me over to the coppers? But you said—you said—”
Holmes gave him a calm look, faintly tinged with distaste. “I said that I might be persuaded to forgo bringing in the police—not that I would in fact do so. And your story, Mr. Jones, has not been at all persuasive.”
CHAPTER 13: WATSON
I led the still spluttering and protesting Mr. Jones downstairs, depositing him into the charge of the two police constables, who were waiting just as Holmes had said.
When I returned, Mrs. Spenlow was addressing Holmes.
“What will happen to him, Mr. Holmes?”
“Mr. Jones will be charged, questioned, and then escorted to Holloway Prison, where he will await his trial before a magistrate.”
“Oh, but surely—” Mrs. Spenlow bit her lip. “That is, if he has any information about my brother, we shall lose the chance to question him if he is in prison!”
“True. But I have every confidence that Mr. Jones quite genuinely has nothing of value to tell us about your brother or his current whereabouts.”
“But—” Mrs. Spenlow’s voice was filled with distress. “But if that is the case, we are no nearer to finding Ronald than before!”
“The situation may not be quite so hopeless as that. But first—” Holmes turned to Lucy. “If young Becky is not listening at the door by now in hopes of hearing news of Flynn, she soon will be. Would you mind fetching her from the kitchen?”
It seemed to me that a look, brief, but nonetheless of some significance, passed between Holmes and Lucy—although what the look signified, I was unable to say. Perhaps he wished Lucy to contact the mortuary nearest to Cable Street and ask whether a body answering Ronald Stiles’ description had been found?
If he disbelieved Mr. Jones’ story, and suspected that the man had already made away with Ronald Stiles, Holmes might have been unwilling to speak of it before Stiles’ sister.
Long though I had known Holmes, I had come to accept that there were moments when his own and Lucy’s kinship meant that they shared a way of thinking and communicating that was beyond me.
“Of course,” Lucy said.
The speed with which she and Becky returned confirmed Holmes’s theory that Becky would not have waited much longer to be included in the conversation.
“Now,” Holmes said, when they were seated opposite from Mrs. Spenlow on the sofa. “I believe you mentioned finding a scrap of paper in the hiding spot uncovered in Ronald’s Stiles’ room? A fragment from a pawn shop ticket?”
“That’s right!” Becky sat up straighter. “You put it in your pocket, Lucy, just before that man broke in.”
“That’s right, I did.”
Lucy drew out the fragment and handed it across to Holmes, who took it between his thumb and forefinger.
“A pawnbroker’s ticket?” Mrs. Spenlow repeated. “But of what use is that in finding Ronald?”
“Ah, but you see, this is not just any pawnbroker’s ticket.” Holmes took up his magnifying glass from where it had lain on the mantle and used it to examine the small paper fragment. “Do you see this design here? The Greek key motif on the edge of the paper?” He held the paper and magnifying glass out to Mrs. Spenlow. “I happen to know that particular pattern is unique to the tickets issued by a pawn shop in Mitre Street, Whitechapel. That is not far from Mr. Stiles’ room at 46 Cable Street.”
“Really?” Mrs. Spenlow’s eyes had gone wide with surprise.
I shared her surprise—although I should not have done. Holmes could identify the mud and gravel particular to every square inch of London. Was it so unbelievable that he would also be familiar with the city pawnbrokers and their tickets?
“The establishment is run by a man named Mr. Jibbit,” he said.
Becky still looked discouraged, the corners of her mouth turned down. “This doesn’t really get us any closer to finding Flynn, though,” she said.
“Perhaps not.” Holmes spoke with unaccustomed gentleness. “But it does possibly put us one step nearer to finding Ronald Stiles—and that is the first step in the road to us finding Flynn.”
Becky nodded again, though shakily. “All right. Are we going to see this Mr. Jibbit now?”
“We shall. Although I have a different assignment for you, Becky,” Holmes said.
“What is it?”
“I wish you to remain here, and to keep Mrs. Spenlow company. That is”—he addressed Mrs. Spenlow—“if you do not object to remaining here?”
“I have no objection,” Mrs. Spenlow said slowly. “But why—”
“Your brother appears to have attracted the attention of at least one dangerous individual—and it is entirely possible that others besides Mr. Jones may be searching for him,” Holmes said. “Until we know more, I believe that it would be safer for you to remain here.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Spenlow’s cheeks had lost a little of their vibrant colour, and her dark eyes were anxious. “Of course, Mr. Holmes, if you think it advisable, then I will stay.”
CHAPTER 14: FLYNN
Flynn sawed away at the rope around his wrists, rubbing it as hard as he could against the nail. How long had he been at this?
It felt like hours. The muscles of his arms and shoulders felt like they were on fire from the effort it took to hold them in the right position so that he could reach the nail.
And the rope still hadn’t given way. He couldn’t even tell for sure if he was making any progress. Although surely the rope had to break eventually?
Unless whoever’d nabbed him came back for him first.
Flynn tried to stomp on that thought. But as if he’d made it happen just by thinking about it, he suddenly heard footsteps.
He jerked his hands away from the nail and lay still, his heart hammering so hard in his ears that he felt sick.
Should he pretend to be still knocked unconscious? Or try to jump out and attack whoever came to check on him?
Fat lot of damage he’d be able to do, trussed up like a turkey for the market. Unless his kidnapper died laughing.
Flynn didn’t move, holding his breath. But the footsteps didn’t come any closer. Instead, the trunk he was in wobbled a bit—as though the surface it was standing on had just moved. And then he heard about the last sounds he’d been expecting: the clop of hooves, and a horse’s neigh.
CHAPTER 15: WATSON
Jibbit’s pawn shop proved to be a squalid little storefront along Mitre Street, less than fifty paces from Mitre Square, made infamous by the discovery of one of the victims of Jack the Ripper more than a decade earlier. The neighbourhood had not improved since. The narrow street was clogged with trash and debris. The sallow, careworn faces of the passers-by gave no impression that they wanted anything more at this moment in their weary lives than to get away from their fellow-creatures and reach some shelter. The storefront window glass of the shop was woefully neglected. The dust on the panes obscured the few articles of clothing and cheap jewellery on display, and the sign proclaiming that cash might be advanced for similar items was virtually illegible through the accumulated grime.
Inside the shop, a tidy, round-faced bespectacled clerk stood behind a high counter, sifting through a pile of tarnished cutlery laid out on a yellowing pillowcase, watched closely and hopefully by a bedraggled young woman. Behind her several similarly hopeful women stood in a line, each holding cloth bundles, waiting for their turn for the attention of the clerk behind the counter.
“Mr. Jibbit!” Holmes shouted.
All customers present turned to look at Holmes, and at Lucy and me behind Holmes just inside the entry door.
The clerk, too, glanced up from his pile of cutlery. “He’s in the back,” he said. “Couldn’t help hearin’ you. Be out in a moment, I expect.”
And in a moment, indeed, a tall, cadaverous looking grey-moustached man emerged from the shadowy doorway at the rear of the shop. He brightened when he recognised Holmes. “Ah. Mr. Holmes,” he said. “How can I help?”
Holmes took the torn photograph of Ronald Stiles from his inside coat pocket and showed it to Jibbit along with the ticket fragment. “Has this man been here recently?”
Jibbit pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Don’t recall him. But we get so many, and I don’t see them all—”
Then came Lucy’s voice. “Look sharp.”
Behind us the door opened, and a surly, loud voice said, “’Ere now! Are you Jibbit? I’m lookin’ for Ronald Stiles!”
